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Friday, March 2, 2012

On the way to the diamond store AKA Cops & your tax dollars at work...

So, in what certainly had nothing to do with the gnawing teeth and bobbing head of a zany puppy for the past year, we took my engagement ring in for it's yearly inspection and cleaning (per their warranty agreement).

Reasonable facsimile-ish.

At said inspection, under the glimmery diamond-shiny pot lighting, at the fancy-pantsy minimalist office space (where I always feel like they are going to launch into an interview and/or interrogation), the man simply hovered his tweezers over one of the side stones in my ring, and that baby wiggled and bobbed much like I did at my bachelorette party.

Wait, not like that. I didn't mean BOBBED like that. I meant, like, stumbled and was all sloppy drunk.

Jeez, you guys and your perverted minds make it really hard to tell a story here. (Stop snickering at "really hard". I mean, seriously? C'mon. Oh stop laughing at the "come" in "come on"! You people are just impossible, really.)

*ahem*
Moving on.

So as the diamondologist/sales guy/Captain Obvious stated, the diamond was loose and it was recommended that we agree to let my baby (the ring, I don't actually have a baby - seriously, dammit, stop it with the sex stuff!) be sent away for repair.

Kind of like Dr. Suess' Grinch. I imagined them "taking it to Santa's workshop" and then never returning it. You know, 'cause if he really returned while hurling himself down a mountain slopeside at high speeds, my luck would result in the ring flying out of the sleigh, right before the avalanche struck.

Okay, what was I talking about again?

What my ring would have looked like with one more solid face-mash from the puppy dog.

Right, so, anyway, ring gets repaired.
My aversion to leaving the house, along with my fear that they wouldn't let me pick up the jewelry without the original buyer with me (aka The New Husband AKA the Former Feyoncé™), TRIPLED with the fact I was worried they would try to charge some crazy fee for repairs, caused me to delay the trip for a few weeks.

So I got over hurtle #1. Made it out of the house, presentable, but with lioness-like hair. Drive my ass all the way in to Mississauga. Pull into the diamond store parking lot... and.. oh f_ck.

Walk to doors, see cops walking around inside the store with a sales guy. No large vault doors appeared to be open.

The sales guy seemed pretty calm. Happy, even.

My sensory-threat level of DEFCON BAJILLION began to settle.

After I waited about 15 minutes and was finally reunited with my love fancy ring. There were no problems, no fees, no issue. But then, I realized that the police had been called because of a premature alarm of some sort (Stop it! All I said was premature). But, you know, they got there before me.

AND THEY WERE BROWSING THE MOTHEREFFING STORE. The two of them were wandering about with the sales guy, looking at prototype rings. For at least 15 minutes.

Approximation.

And they were still there when I left. Had I not had the most obvious, loud-snapping-when-taking-a-photo-phone, I would have documented that shit for you. They were clearly ON DUTY and IN FULL UNIFORM, just browsing about the diamond store.

Jeez, guys, at least pretend you are inspecting some alarm shit or something.

And you KNOW one of 'em is gonna try to get a "badge"-influenced discount.

So, there you go. My ring wasn't stolen, but I am pretty sure that part of your tax dollars were if you live in Peel Region. You know, inadvertently.